“Cadet” by Erica Bodwell

06 December 2013 on Poetry   Tags:

Eric. Whom I couldn't help but fuck
within hours of laying eyes on his Officer and a Gentleman face.
Who sent me intricate, violent drawings on graph paper
from his summer post at West Point. Who, ordered to haze
the Plebes, wouldn't. Who said, I hate the fuckers.
Who shrugged, It was either lead 'em or follow 'em.
Who hated shooting, fell purposely to the bottom
of his class, invited me to the Ring Dance,
then said, I can't see your shape,
and pulled his regulation belt tight at my waist. Who raced
across the room to go down on me. Who lay
among the sheets in my first double bed
and traced his lovely, gun-scented fingers along my lifeline.
Who would only swim in pools.
Whom I know in webby summer morning dreams
by the sharp cut of his soldier's jaw,
the crisp snap of his dress whites, the sound
brass buttons made against my teeth.
Who said, the last time we had sex,
I know how I'm going to die. Who did.

Erica Bodwell is a poet living in Concord, NH. Her poems have been published in Stone Highway Review, Cactus Heart, Red River Review, Alliterati, Cobalt, and other fine journals.

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